


These Foolish Things...

by a_secret_scribbler



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: "The Conversation", 50 shades, A proposal and a wedding, Alice in Wonderland, Anthea is the Best PA, Anthea saves a life no matter how small, Babies, Bananas, Bedside tables, Bike Riding, Broken brollies, Cat bathing, Christmas Fluff, Complete, Countryfile, Cousins, Crying Mycroft, Declarations Of Love, Desert Island Discs, Developing Relationship, Donkeys, Eau de Parfum, Falling In Love, Foul food, Freckles, Funeral plans, Galore the Pussy, Gloves, Greg doesn't do opera, Greg is a fidget, Greg's a cock man now, Greg's briefcase, Greg's outdoor sex kink, Hang-ups, Holidays, Inappropriate wedding presents, Irrational fear of clowns, Jealous Mycroft, Licking, Lindt Bunnies, Liquorish Allsorts, M/M, Making Love, Mouth capacity, Mycroft's foibles, Mycroft's tattoo, Not handkerchiefs, Pet Names, Piercing, Policeman & punk, Posh leather shoes, Posh pillows, Replacement fish, Sharing Clothes, Snowball Fight, Socks, The Rules, Tickling, Unique scent, Very expensive knickers, Wallets, agent provocateur, bad habits, diets, doodling, goldfish, in sickness and in health, reading glasses, silk underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:56:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 15,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4093069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_secret_scribbler/pseuds/a_secret_scribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I just couldn't leave it alone...sorry...</p><p>Little facts and ficlets inspired by my other work "24 Hours" (you might want to read that first). </p><p>Delving further into the lives of D.I Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock is the property of ACD, Moffat and Gatiss. Like a bad babysitter, I'll hand it back quickly when it starts crying.  
> Not for profit, just for fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gets a little explicit in Chapter 15

*

 

It took Sherlock three weeks to deduce Mycroft and Greg’s relationship, he made no comment, however, Mycroft was delighted to discover a large rectangular fish tank had taken up residence in his Westminster office the following day. It contained one goldfish, an unusual specimen with silver fins. On the note attached there was one word “Congratulations.” The fish was duly christened Silver Fox.

  
*

  
Silver Fox was joined in time by a slightly slimmer companion, pale gold with bronze speckles, named Blofeld. William, a rather beautiful specimen with flamboyant trailing fins was added after a few more weeks, and his faithful and much fiercer partner, Hamish, joined him a couple of days later. The tank held a variety of items for the amusement of the fish. Mycroft’s favourite was a large skull that William hid in when Hamish was cross with him...apparently…

  
*

  
Anthea was not particularly fond of fish, but did perform a life-saving manoeuvre one morning when she found William had managed to leap out of the tank and was floundering on the carpet near Mycroft’s desk. She scooped the fish up with a cardboard folder and deposited him back into the tank. Mycroft found her ten minutes later staring at the fish with a stern look on her face and her hands on her hips. William made no further suicide attempts.

  
*

  
Greg turns the hem over on the trousers of the silk pyjamas that he “borrows” from Mycroft twice, so he doesn’t trip over them. Mycroft bought him his own made to measure pair the first Christmas they spent together. Greg won’t wear them because they itch.

  
*

  
Mycroft received a box from Turnbull and Asser on their first Christmas together. It contained six perfect handkerchief squares in the same blue herringbone design of the shirt he wore on their first “date”. Embroidered in the corner of each one are the initials S.R. Mycroft blushed furiously when he saw them and then burst out laughing. Mummy protested that she didn’t understand why Gregory would go to the trouble of having the wrong initials embroidered on such an expensive item. Sherlock saved the day when he deduced, incorrectly, that the S.R meant Snot Rag, and that it was a crude joke by Lestrade. They reside in the drawer on Mycroft’s side of the bed and are regularly put to good use.

  
*

  
Mycroft knows that there is one syringe in 221B Baker Street. On the morning of Sherlock and John's wedding, Mycroft was performing his Best Man duties, arguing Sherlock into his tie, when his brother looked him in the eye and said “I won’t live without him. If he dies first I will follow.” Mycroft nodded once and nothing further was said. On their return from honeymoon, Sherlock was delighted to find a wedding present from Greg and Mycroft containing a framed specimen of Acherontia Atropos, or The Deaths-Head Hawk Moth. John said it was creepy and inappropriate for a wedding present. Sherlock keeps it on his desk and understands perfectly that, come the day, if it were needed, behind the moth in the deep frame, is one lethal dose of a barbiturate and paralytic mix not usually found this side of the Atlantic.

  
*

  
Mycroft has mixed feelings about his nose. It is large and dominates his face and he has spent far too many years hating his profile. His very own Detective Inspector discovered this one afternoon after snapping a sneaky photograph on his iPhone. Mycroft demanded that he delete the offending image and declared his nose “Appallingly Ugly!” Now Mycroft’s nose finds itself kissed 36% more than any other facial feature, apart from the lips, and for their first anniversary Gregory bought him a leather bound edition of Cyrano De Bergerac.

  
*

  
Greg’s own personal hang up is his hair. It doesn’t matter how many times he hears himself referred to as a “Silver Fox,” he still feels that it ages him, and particularly at some of the posh social events he now has to attend, standing next to an immaculately attired Mycroft, he feels older than dirt. After one such event, when Mycroft had imbibed one too many glasses of champagne, Greg found himself pulled onto his partner’s knee whilst Mycroft buried his nose into the detective’s hair, the words “Oooh Gregory…your hair feels just like a squirrels tail. All fluffy and squirrelly!” may have been uttered. Greg found the next time he looked at his own reflection in the mirror, he didn’t mind his hair half as much.

  
*

  
Mycroft has mild allergies. He has his pillows flown in from St Genève in Canada. Eight of them arrive every twelve months on the 1st of December. Gregory does not know how much Mycroft pays for these pillows but he has been assured that, as soft and luxurious as they are, they are not “Stuffed with the pubes of dusky exotic maidens.”

  
*

  
Mycroft will never understand Gregory’s fear of clowns, but following the arrest of five suspects wearing clown masks involved in the kidnap and murder of a Russian oligarch, Greg did not sleep for three nights in a row. Mycroft eventually discovered that if he held Gregory’s head safely cradled against his chest and hummed Ever Fallen in Love by The Buzzcocks softly, that the man would eventually succumb to sleep and the nightmares would be vanquished.

  
*

  
Mycroft was less than happy when he came home late one evening and found his partner on his knees in the living room playing with a small white kitten. Gregory had apparently “rescued” it from the pet department in Harrods. The offending pussy was a white Persian which Greg christened Galore. Mycroft stayed angry for seventeen minutes until the kitten climbed up onto his knee, turned around four times and fell fast asleep. In the years to come he will not be able to measure the delight on Greg’s face on the many occasions when he stumbles in after a long day chasing after a certain Consulting Detective and his Doctor to find Mycroft sitting at his desk with Galore in his arms. He still chuckles if Mycroft turns in his chair slowly, as he strokes the pampered kitty, and says “I’ve been expecting you Mr Bond…”

  
*

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More gubbins about Mycroft and his Gregory...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - there are mention of illness (full recovery) and homophobia in this chapter.

*

Mycroft’s fruit bowl will never contain more than three bananas, they will be of medium size and slightly under ripe. Greg will never forget the look of horror on his partners face when he presented Mycroft with an over-ripe banana sliced on his morning yogurt, the kitchen chair fell over in his haste to get to the sink and dry retch over the basin. After that, Mycroft banned over-ripe bananas from the house and will gag if he peels back the skin to reveal a bruised fruit. Gregory finds it amusing that Mycroft is happy to stick his pointy little tongue in any orifice on Greg’s body that he chooses, but he won’t put it anywhere near a brown banana.

*

Greg was delighted to discover that each of the freckles on Mycroft’s body has a different flavour. His favourites are the dark one on his left ankle that tastes of Guinness, the one on the inside of his right wrist that tastes of Butterscotch Angel Delight and the tiny one above his left shoulder blade, his all-time favourite, that tastes of starlight.

*

Mycroft thinks Gregory’s obsession with tasting his freckles is ridiculous, but will be forever grateful that his partner discovered a tiny malignant lump one night when he was “licking starlight goodnight.” The subsequent operation removed starlight from his back permanently and if Greg was saddened every time he ghosted a kiss over the tiny scar that replaced it, he never mentioned it. Six months later Greg came home to find a guilty looking Mycroft sitting in the kitchen wearing one of his old Clash tee shirts instead of his usual bespoke shirt. When questioned, over a cup of earl grey, Mycroft lifted the tee shirt and revealed a small square plaster above his left shoulder blade. On removing the plaster Greg discovered a tiny blue star tattooed above the scar. “Well, you missed it,” was the only explanation given or needed. The tiny tattoo tastes of love.

*

Gregory will insist that he hates opera. He would have to be gagged, bound, drugged and dragged to Covent Garden to accompany Mycroft, so thankfully Sherlock stands in on those occasions. On opera nights Greg and John watch football and deny all knowledge that they both know every single word to the 1990 Italia World Cup song Nessun Dorma.

*

Greg has seen Mycroft cry on only a few occasions. A few tears were shed at Sherlock and Johns wedding, and he wept with joy when Anthea told him that she was pregnant, but by far the worst occasion was when Sherlock was beaten to within an inch of his life by a homophobic arsehole after seeing John off on a train up to Scotland for a medical convention. Greg arrived in a private hospital room to find Sherlock wired up to monitors, his face black and blue and distorted with swelling. Although the doctors had assured Mycroft that his brother was stable and that there was no permanent damage, on seeing Greg enter the room where he was keeping vigil, Mycroft collapsed to the floor sobbing. Greg sat right down in front of him, gathered his distraught partner up onto his lap, and allowed him to soak his overcoat with tears and snot. If Sherlock woke a few minutes later to witness this breakdown he will never tell you, but let’s just say there is a small room in his mind palace that has a plaque on the door labelled “Love” and although a vast amount of the space is filled with John, there is a special corner just for Mycroft and Lestrade.

*

Mycroft will move heaven and earth for the people he cares about. When the train John was travelling on up to Scotland suddenly stopped in the middle of nowhere and a couple of men in black suits boarded, it came as no surprise to the tiny doctor that he soon found himself sitting in a helicopter being whisked back to London and his badly beaten love. When John arrived he found Sherlock awake playing with his phone and Greg asleep on an armchair with Mycroft, in a similar state, curled in his lap. Sherlock winced and put his finger to his lips in the universal sign language for “Shut up. We’ll discuss this later. Yes, I’m fine!” John placed a very gentle kiss on the swollen nose of his damaged darling and agreed.

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg loves Liquorish Allsorts and Mycroft encourages his addiction...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Use of sweary vocabulary by potty-mouthed characters have forced me to change tag to 'Mature' (they're incorrigible).

*

Greg will do almost anything for a Liquorish Allsort, only Bassett’s mind you, none of this generic supermarket crap. Mycroft has been known to secrete the confections about his person and let Gregory discover exactly how snuggly an aniseed jelly can fit into a belly button. He’s not telling where he hid the coconut one (and, to be honest, it’s best not to ask).

*

Gregory knows that Mycroft will be given a ceremonial funeral when he dies for his services to the nation. It will be all pomp and ceremony and absolutely hateful. He secretly hopes that he goes first so he will never have to sit there with all the suits, mourning a man he knows has hidden Liquorish Allsorts behind his balls. Perhaps, if he was asked to contribute, he should keep that out of the obituary.

*

Mycroft knows that Gregory wants something simple when he dies, a nonreligious service, no flowers and a few hundred quid behind the bar of the pub nearest NSY. What they have both agreed to though, is a burial plot on the Holmes family estate. Greg has chosen a spot where they will be shaded by an old oak tree because he knows how Mycroft suffers in the sun. Mycroft doesn’t mention that they will both be six foot under and the sun will be the least of their worries. Neither of them believe in heaven or the afterlife but sometimes Mycroft secretly wishes there was a quiet place where they could live out eternity. When the thought of parting gets to Mycroft, Greg pulls him into a hug and promises to haunt him like Patrick Swayze in Ghost.

*

When pressed, Greg would say that Mycroft’s worst habit is leaning over his shoulder and finishing The Times crossword before he has filled in the first ten clues. Mycroft will say that Greg never replaces an empty toilet roll. There are worse things to worry about. John has a list of Sherlock’s bad habits as long as his arm. They range from forgetting to buy milk to “Filling the fucking bath with soil and worms you twatting arsehat!” John’s worst habit is “Flirting with anything with a bloody pulse!” Sherlock is also an expert at sulking. “The Sulk-Meister”. “Mr Sulkster”. “The Honourable Sulkenstein III”. “Captain McSulky of the Royal Sulkingtons”. Sherlock doesn’t sulk for half as long as he used to.

*

Mycroft has spent over half his life on a diet. He has tried the F-Plan, 5 – 2, Grapefruit, Slimfast, Slimming world and Weight Watchers (both online), Atkins, Dukan, Beverly Hills, Cabbage Soup, Jenny Craig, Food Combining and The Blood Type Diet, all with varying degrees of success. Greg has thrown out the scales, burned the diet books and turned one of their spare rooms into a gym. Mycroft now works out for forty five minutes every other day and rarely turns his nose up at a chocolate éclair. Greg also went round to have a serious talk with Sherlock and may have threatened to “kick his skinny arse from here to Bermondsey,” if he ever called Mycroft fat again. Sherlock has kept to his side of the bargain.

*

Greg has no freckles but he does have a beautiful birthmark that sits in the dimple above his right buttock. Mycroft, after being persuaded to taste this by a campaign of nagging and tickling, declared “There’s the faintest soupçon of elderflower and just a flutter of Pinot Noir.” Greg was utterly charmed and rewarded Mycroft handsomely. Mycroft could compose a symphony to Greg’s eyes but he cannot be persuaded to lick them.

*

Mycroft is ticklish. When he and Sherlock were boys, the younger Holmes could make his brother squeal with laughter by sticking one finger into his side and wriggling it frantically. Gregory has a much more subtle way of reducing his sweetheart to a giggling mess. A well placed tongue traced across the back of the knee will have the other man begging for mercy in twenty three seconds.

*

Greg has an outdoor sex kink. After almost being caught twice in the bushes of their nearest park and once by John down an alley in Baker Street, Mycroft imposed an outdoor sex ban until they could find a house with a garden that wasn’t overlooked. Gregory complained that the threat of being caught was “the whole fucking point!” He quickly adapted his kink, however, to include a large hammock hanging between the two ash trees in the garden of their new home, and the hot tub that Mycroft bought him for their third anniversary. He has also declared that if there is anything more beautiful than a naked Mycroft Holmes, stretched out on a picnic blanket under a starlit sky, then he has yet to see it.

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yummy...Yaks Penis!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of Mycroft on public transport - proof, if proof were needed, that this is, in fact, the ramblings of a mad woman. Mycroft would never take public transport!!!

*

Mycroft would rather chew off his own leg than travel on public transport. Greg has tested this theory only once and the whingeing and whining on the number 24 bus prompted Greg to throw Mycroft’s favourite James Smith and Sons, £245, Elm wood umbrella, under the wheels of the bus on alighting. Mycroft carried the broken and twisted item in his arms like a baby to the shop where Gregory had to cough up for repairs and suffer a ten minute lecture on the right and proper use of umbrellas by the manager.

*

Greg has a framed drawing of a policeman on his desk at work. He is very fond of the picture because it was the very first birthday present Mycroft bought him. He is completely unaware that the drawing is an original Lowry and probably worth more than he earns in a year. The first birthday present Greg gave Mycroft was a CD that he burned with all the favourite songs from his youth. He made an insert for the cover from a photocopy of an old photograph of himself wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a Sex Pistols tee shirt, his dark brown hair spiked, well applied eyeliner enhancing his rich brown eyes, and a cigarette hanging from his lips in a tribute to James Dean. Mycroft had never been the recipient of a mixed tape in his youth and was so delighted and taken with the gift that it has had a permanent place in his briefcase since the day he received it. He also has a soft spot for London Calling by The Clash and surprised John by singing it loudly whilst loading the dishwasher after a rather boozy Sunday lunch at Mummy’s.

*

Gregory has a variety of pet names for Mycroft. Mycroft’s particular favourites are “My Love,” “Angel,” “Big Boy,” “Sex Fiend,” and “Kitten.” Mycroft rarely calls Gregory by anything other than his given name, however, after one alcohol fuelled charity dinner, “Come to me my masterful fuck monster!” may have been yelled down the garden to where the love of his life was sitting reading and enjoying the last of the evening sunshine. Greg responded appropriately, vocally, and with the vigour of a man half his age. Never had he been so grateful that they had no immediate neighbours.

*

There are a number of things that Greg will never allow to pass his lips. Homebrew. Octopus. Haggis. Tripe. Liver. Brussel Sprouts. Green Olives. Oysters and Marmite. Mycroft will gag at an over-ripe banana but there is little he hasn’t tried on his many trips overseas. The most memorable were Durian, Hakarl. Birds nest soup. Dried lizard. Fugu and Yaks penis. They were dining at John and Sherlock’s place when Mycroft mentioned the last one. Sherlock huffed and said that all the people sitting at the table had at some point had a penis in their mouth so what was all the fuss about? John let it be known, in no uncertain terms, that until his darling consulting weirdo understood the difference between eating Yaks penis and giving a blow job that he was going nowhere near his knob. Thank you. Very. Much.

*

Mycroft does not watch much television. He has, however, been known to throw things at the screen during Question Time, answer every question correctly on University Challenge and snigger at Q.I. He will happily sit through an entire episode of Countryfile, not because he has any great desire to become one of the landed gentry, as Greg suspects, but because he has the biggest crush on Matt Baker. Greg will devour anything on television as long as it doesn’t contain the words Big Brother, Strictly, Embarrassing Bodies or The Great British…

*

To celebrate their second anniversary, Greg had a piercing in his right nipple. Mycroft was so turned on when he discovered his sneaky Detective Inspector wearing a small silver bar through said nipple, that he stood and rubbed one out in the kitchen without removing one single article of his clothing.

*

Six months into their relationship Mycroft asked Gregory to fuck him. Greg did no such thing, he very slowly, and very carefully, made love to the man. Mycroft wept tears of joy as his lover shared with him the sheer beauty of an act which Mycroft had, for so long, feared. Afterwards they lay sweaty and replete in each other’s arms and Mycroft knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he loved this man more than life itself. He said nothing of course, but Gregory knew.

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out how Mycroft and Greg declare themselves to be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. Clean your teeth afterwards guys, its a bit sweet...

*

Three months into their relationship, Greg was sitting at his desk at work, fiddling with a biro, when he confessed his true feelings to Mycroft, during a phone conversation…

“Lestrade…”

“Good afternoon Gregory, its Mycroft.”

“Myc…where the hell are you?”

“I’m afraid I cannot disclose my whereabouts at this present time…let’s just say I’m out of the country.”

“Oh…okay. I was worried when you didn’t show up the other night and I couldn’t get hold of you. I figured it was probably some secret squirrel stuff.”

“No squirrels Gregory, but I am sorry I couldn’t get a message to you sooner, it was a matter of the utmost importance. In future, however, should a similar situation arise, I will instruct Anthea to let you know immediately should our plans have to be cancelled.”

“Yeah. That’d be great, save me a few sleepless nights.”

“You needn’t lose sleep on my account. I assure you I am perfectly safe.”

“Is that ‘safe’ as in you wanting me not to worry but right now there’s six snipers pointing at your head, or ‘safe, safe’, as in really safe?”

Mycroft let out a huff of laughter. “Safe, safe, as in really safe, Gregory.”

“Good. So, I’ll see you when you get back?”

“Yes. I should be home on Friday evening, I’ll be tired, but I’ll sleep better if you are with me.”

“That’s a date then. I’ll be at yours around eight thirty?”

“Perfect. I need to go. Time and tide wait for no man.”

“Okay. See you on Friday. Stay 'safe, safe'…and Myc…”

“Yes Gregory?”

“I...I love you…”

“... … … … … Goodbye Gregory...”

“…’bye Myc.”

Greg didn’t worry that Mycroft had not returned the sentiment, he just wanted the man to know. Mycroft, however, sat clutching his phone afterwards for ten minutes, gawping into the mid-distance and wondering how he’d got so lucky, and if he would ever pluck up the courage to say it back.

*

Of course the circumstances of Mycroft’s declaration were not how he had pictured it at all. Perhaps walking hand-in-hand along the river Seine during a romantic weekend in Paris, or over dinner at Gregory’s favourite restaurant? No. Mycroft said those three little words, to his semi-conscious lover, in a hospital room in central London, on a Wednesday night, six months and three days after they first kissed.

Mycroft received the call that Detective Inspector Lestrade had been admitted to hospital with a head wound whilst he was at Baker Street trying to persuade his brother to take a case of national importance. He was sitting in John’s chair, the ever present umbrella leaning against one armrest and a cup and saucer on the other. He answered the call, his face blanched, and he stood up so quickly that both the tea cup and the saucer fell to the floor and shattered into pieces.

“Mycroft! You clumsy…what has happened? Is it Mummy?” Sherlock leapt to his feet, clattered over the coffee table and helped Mycroft back down to his seat before he collapsed.

“It’s Gregory. He’s been hurt…he’s at the UCLH…I need to go to him…” Mycroft attempted to stand on wobbling legs.

“John!” Sherlock yelled, “Get your coat and accompany my brother to hospital. I will join you shortly after a quick detour to The Yard.”

Mycroft found himself standing at Gregory’s bedside, thirty five minutes later, with a bemused John at the foot of the bed. Greg had a comically large bandage fixed above his left ear and a dazed expression on his face, but he was conscious, and coherent…just.

“Hey Kitten…I got myself bashed on the head…it really fucking hurts.”

Mycroft grasped Greg’s hand and fell to his knees next to the bed, “Oh thank God…you’re awake…I thought…I thought…I couldn’t bear the thought of you never knowing how much you mean to me.” He brought the hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. “Gregory Lestrade. I love you deeply, and I am an idiot waiting for so long to tell you…forgive me…”

Greg pulled at his hand until he stood back up. Moving his face closer, he listened to his pummelled policeman whisper. “I know you love me Myc, but it’s good to hear you say it…”

John left them to it and found Sherlock pacing the floor in reception, he marched right up to the twirling man in the long coat, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a long, and very thorough, kiss.

When they parted, and Sherlock had got his breath back, John grinned and said, “Lestrade’s fine. Mycroft’s with him. I love you, you ridiculous man.”

The perpetrator of the crime was never found. Never. Found. Mycroft and Sherlock made sure of that.

*


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Donkeys, bunnies and fish...Oh My!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No donkey's or goldfish were (really) harmed in the writing of this chapter...
> 
> Warning. There's brief mention of a letter bomb.

*

Never. Buy. Mycroft. Socks. That’s all. Greg will tell you, after making that simple error once, that “Mycroft has his socks woven from Gandalf's beard hair, by woodland elves, in Middle Earth, far, far, away…” He’s wrong of course, but Mycroft won’t bother to correct him.

*

Greg hates donkeys. He was bitten by one on the shoulder during a school nativity play when he was seven. He had already suffered the indignity of being turned down for the role of Joseph, was positioned on stage as third shepherd, and well into the second verse of Silent Night when the beast struck. Greg punched it in the eye, having discovered, in the shark book he was reading, that the manoeuvre was the only way to survive a fatal attack. The donkey let go. At both ends. The play was abandoned whilst a clean-up operation was mounted.

Mycroft played Herod in his school nativity. Naturally.

*

The letter bomb went off in Mycroft’s office at 7.45am. He was late, as he had made a detour to pick up John (they were meeting to discuss the planning of an anniversary memorial service for soldiers who had lost their lives in Afghanistan). Anthea was pinned under her desk for fifteen minutes but escaped unharmed. The only fatalities were four goldfish. John scooped their bodies into a box file and left with them tucked safely under his arm. Their ashes were delivered to Mycroft in a tiny urn and a small service took place in a quiet corner of the Holmes estate the following weekend, with only a tall auburn haired man and his grey haired companion present.

A month after Mycroft’s office was restored to its former glory, John rocked up with a new fish tank and four handsome goldfish. They were not replacements, he explained, but to keep Mycroft company because he worked such long hours. The fish were duly named Doc, Sherly, Kitten and Bertie, and Mycroft grew to love them almost as much as the original four.

*

Greg can fit thirteen Pringles into his mouth without breaking them. Mycroft has no desire to try. He is, however, his university’s, as yet undefeated, champion at dry cream cracker eating.

*

Mycroft’s favourite confectionary is the Lindt Chocolate Bunny. He finds himself unable to explain to Greg how much pleasure he gets from biting off their ears. Greg says he’s a “Cruel, kinky fucker,” and the night after the D.I. first witnessed his lover carefully unwrapping the gold foil and nibbling the tips of those chocolatey protuberances, Mycroft found his lover in bed wearing a rather fetching pair of pink bunny ears and a fluffy tail. As for the little red ribbon and bell from around the chocolate bunny’s neck...well...it had never been intended for such inappropriate use and was immediately removed from around Gregory’s cock (if the action of removing it involved a lot of tongue, and a little application of teeth, then so much the better).

*

Mycroft won’t intentionally eat Lindt chocolate in bar form because it doesn’t taste right. He will, however, indulge in one piece if it is passed, half melted, from the mouth of one D.I. Gregory Lestrade straight into his own mouth, like a mother bird feeding its baby. Greg will sit back on the settee, breaking off and enjoying one piece after another until Mycroft puts his head onto his knee and makes a little tweeting sound, only then will Greg bend over his precious darling and feed him willingly. This sickly sweet and overly romantic activity almost always leads to something rather lewd and sexual in nature.

*

Since starting their relationship Greg has never once fantasised about sex involving the female of the species. Mycroft has once or twice mentioned it, usually when they have been out socially and an attractive woman has made a play for a bit of Silver Fox action. Jealousy does not sit easily with Mycroft, and when he witnesses the fluttering eyelashes, pouting lips, and casual brushes of a beautifully manicured finger on his partners arm, he finds it hard to restrain himself from rushing over and staking his claim. Greg always extricates himself from the situation carefully, and returns promptly to the side of his handsome companion before there is the need to deport the reckless female to an icy wasteland.

There was, however, one embarrassing incident witnessed by some royals, an Oscar winning actress and an MEP, that resulted in raised voices and the slamming of a palace door.

“For fuck’s sake Mycroft if she spread herself on the buffet table and piped whipped cream on her tits, I still wouldn’t tap it!”

“Gregory!…She was all over you like a rash! I could hardly blame you succumbing to your desire to indulge in heterosexual intercourse when it is offered so blatantly …”

“You fuckwit! I’m going right now, and if you and your incredibly talented cock would like to make an appointment with my arse tonight, then I suggest you start thinking about how you’re going to make it up to me before you get home. Goodbye Mycroft, give my apologies to Her Maj'.”

Mycroft appeared a few minutes later with a very red face and a suspicious bulge in his well-tailored trousers. The Queen dismissed him, with a wave of her hand when he went to make his excuses, and told him to go home straight away and make things right with the charming Detective Inspector.

Greg is a cock man now. Specifically one cock. Attached to one Mr Mycroft Edwin Holmes.

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betrothed and wedded...

*

Greg proposed to Mycroft one night, under the stars, on the balcony of their hotel bedroom in Sardinia. They had just spent a glorious evening dining in a Michelin star restaurant, taken a moonlit stroll back to their hotel, and indulged themselves further by making love on the cool Egyptian cotton sheets in their air conditioned bedroom. Greg excused himself and went to clean himself up in the bathroom, when he returned he found the bed empty and Mycroft leaning against the open balcony door, wrapped in a sheet, looking like he had stepped straight out of a Roman mosaic.

“What are you thinking Kitten?” he asked, wrapping his arms around the taller man’s waist and pressing a kiss onto his exposed shoulder.

“Just…just…that it would be wonderful to know every day could be like today…it was so perfect…” he replied wistfully looking out at the full moon.

Greg suddenly realised that what he wanted right now, more than anything else in the world, was not the three star meals, the high count bed linen, the champagne, the stars or the moon. It was this man, in his arms, for the rest of his days. He pressed another kiss to the bare shoulder and whispered, “I can’t promise you perfection love, but I’ll spend every day aiming for it if you’ll say you’ll be there with me. I love you with all my heart Mycroft…Will you marry me?”

There was a moment when Greg swears the world stopped turning, a dropped sheet, and then his arms were full of a very naked Mycroft Holmes and his face was peppered with kisses interspersed with the words “Yes, my love, yes!”

*

The engagement was announced in The Times a week after their return to England.

**Mr G Lestrade and Mr M.E. Holmes**

The engagement is announced between

Gregory, son of Caroline and Joseph Lestrade,

and Mycroft, son of Viviane and Edwin Holmes.

*

Sherlock helped to plan their wedding, he can be spectacularly organised when it is required. He was Mycroft’s best man and John stood for Greg. The wedding cake was a sight to behold, the top layer featuring two miniature Lindt bunnies atop a pile of Liquorish Allsorts. The grooms were tight lipped about the design but a handful of the sweets were wrapped in a napkin and deposited in Mycroft’s jacket pocket after they had cut the cake. Their first dance was a composition by Sherlock heavily featuring the theme from the Bond films, which Greg found hilarious, and raised a few eyebrows with Mycroft’s work colleagues. John made a speech themed around love and friendship, law enforcement and spies, which brought the house down and may have outed half of MI6. Sherlock ended the evening with a display of pyrotechnics that put the Olympic closing ceremony to shame and was partly responsible for the rerouting of a few dozen domestic flights over North London. They spent their honeymoon on a private island, a gift from Mycroft’s ultimate employer. Greg’s wedding gift to Mycroft was matching navy blue silk boxer shorts embroidered with “Mr & Mr” on the front. Mycroft’s gift to Gregory was leaving his mobile phone in Anthea’s handbag for a whole fortnight.

*

They both wear wedding rings. Greg wears a satin finish, white and rose gold band because, when Mycroft spotted it in the jeweller’s window and made a passing comment that it looked like it was made from their hair, he wasn’t going to look any further was he? It has the words “Always yours. Kitten x” engraved inside. Mycroft wears an antique, 18 carat, yellow gold band with a small sapphire set into it. The setting makes the stone look almost the same as the tiny star tattooed above his left shoulder blade. His has the following words inside “With all my heart. Bertie x”. Sherlock deduced that this was a nod to P.G Wodehouse, Mycroft was an ardent admirer of his works, he was wrong of course. It was, in fact, a reference to Greg’s obsession with Bertie Bassett the Liquorish Allsorts man. Say. No. More.

*


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is quite the artist...Who knew?

*

Mycroft owns five pairs of gloves;

 

     1. Hand sewn cashmere lined peccary black leather, everyday wear.

 

     2. North Face Kelvin ski gloves. Essential for Klosters.

 

     3. Hand sewn deerskin black leather driving gloves. “Who the fuck wears driving 

gloves Myc?”

 

     4. White cotton, for ridiculously formal dinners.

 

     5. Black satin opera gloves. Dubious stains. Greg's favourite pair…

*

Mycroft can’t ride a bicycle. Well, let me rephrase that, Mycroft can't ride a bicycle without stabilisers. He was mocked at his primary school for still having the tiny wheels firmly affixed to his bike long after all the other boys in his class had removed theirs. It became such an embarrassment to him that he did not mind at all when "someone" stole his carelessly unlocked bike from outside the post office (and threw it into the canal).

Greg has owned a number of bicycles, ranging from a tiny red trike, through a brief flirtation with retro choppers, mountain bikes, and a couple of good racing bikes, he had the gravel burns to prove it. His favorite bike though, is the one downstairs in the garage, a 1950 Vincent series 'C' Comet 500cc, lovingly restored by his father and handed down to his son when Joseph Lestrade decided he really wasn’t ever going to ride it again. Mycroft has his heart in his mouth on the rare Sundays when Greg takes the bike for a spin, but refrains from voicing his opinions on the dangers of motorbikes as long as Gregory allows him to carefully unzip his leathers on his return, slide his hand inside, and give him a damned good rubbing.

*

Greg is a doodler. He cannot sit in a meeting or at his desk without a pen or pencil in his hand. Some of his best works include;

 

  1. A mermaid, complete with seashell bra and a trail of bubbles coming out of her mouth containing the words “Bored”, I’m”, “Fucking” and “So”, but not necessarily in that order.

 

  2. The words ‘Gregory Holmes-Lestrade’ practiced over and over again, two days after he returned from the holiday where he proposed to Mycroft.

 

  3. A rather good profile drawing of Sherlock wearing the ear hat with the words “Consulting fucking know-it-all bastard knob-head” swirling around the hat like smoke. John has this framed above his desk.

 

  4. Mycroft’s hand. He drew around his husband’s left hand when they were in the hospital waiting room as Sherlock received stitches for a knife wound and John slept off yet another concussion. As they waited, Greg filled in the drawing with 9,684 tiny blue dots, Mycroft knows this because he counted every one.

 

  5. A teapot with John’s head poking out from under the lid like the legendary dormouse. The words “Cup of tea anyone?” in a speech bubble coming from his mouth. Sherlock stole this off Greg’s pad while he was waiting for John to finish writing their statements after a particularly boring case “It was barely a four John…” Greg knows Sherlock keeps it in a copy of Practical Beekeeping because Mrs Hudson told him so.

 

  6. The words “Twat”, “Arsehole” and “Wanker” repeated over and over again on an A4 sheet of paper, when he was supposed to be taking notes at a meeting between his boss and some officious busybodies. His boss spotted the ‘notes’ and almost choked trying not to laugh. Greg got a verbal reprimand later and was then taken out for a few swift pints down at the local pub immediately afterwards. He was, however, never asked to take the minutes again.




*

Mycroft is a tiny bit scared witless of mice. His husband found him balanced on a kitchen stool one evening as Galore, their pampered pussy, chased a tiny brown rodent in circuits around the kitchen floor. Greg stood in the doorway pissing himself laughing as Mycroft demanded “Stop being a complete halfwit and come and rescue me!” Greg managed to scoop up a rather disgruntled Galore and deposit her into the hallway before cornering the frightened mouse and capturing it in a cardboard shoe box to be disposed of later. Mycroft was helped down off the stool and then begged Greg to spare the mouse’s life. This is why they found themselves 20 miles away in a small wood, at midnight that same night. Mycroft had calculated that this was far enough away that the rodent would be unlikely to make a return visit. Greg released the mouse into the wild and grumbled “It’s not a fucking homing pigeon!” No, Galore would save what would become known as ‘The Pigeon Incident’ for a night when Greg was in on his own a few months later, the first thing Mycroft knew of it was when he opened the door to his study and found bird shit liberally deposited over every sodding surface.

*

Unique scent.

If you just happen to pass a member of the extended Holmes clan, lean in and inhale, it is likely that you may notice the following;

Mycroft – Leather. Oak. Bonfire night. Whiskey. Cashmere. Caramel.

Sherlock – Newly lit fires. Warm dusty roads. Fresh bark. Clove. Old books. (Cigarette smoke – on a bad day).

Greg – Un-waxed lemons. Ink. Rain on parched grass. Pears soap. Liquorish.

John – Tea. Wool. Antiseptic. Detergent. The incoming tide. Freshly line-dried linen.

Spend a day in close proximity to all four of them and you’ll come away feeling exhilarated and slightly dizzy…won’t you Molly Hooper?

*


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teething problems...Or, when Greg moved in with Mycroft and things got a little bumpy there for a while.

*

When Greg moved in to Mycroft’s apartment, ten months after they first got it together, there were teething problems. Mycroft had a tendency to tidiness that bordered on anal, years of nannies drumming “There’s a place for everything and everything has its place” into him as a young boy. Sherlock had the same upbringing but went the way of rebellion, obviously, rather than conforming. So, when Greg arrived like a whirlwind, kicking his shoes off at the door instead of lining them up against the skirting board, slinging his keys in the general direction of the hall table, and then moaning when he couldn’t find them in the morning. Mugs (!) soaking in the sink, half eaten kebabs in paper on the coffee table, books with broken spines where he lay them face down on the floor next to the settee. Balled up, inside out, socks in the laundry, toothpaste caps left off, wet towels on the floor…but the worst…the “How the hell can you live like this!” moment was when Mycroft found crumbs in the bed. Greg had the day off, he’d heard Mycroft leave at 4am, so when he woke up at a more civilised 8.30am, he went downstairs, warmed up a couple of croissants, put them, butter and jam on a tray with a large mug of coffee, and taken it all back upstairs to enjoy in bed with the morning papers.

That evening, after a long day, Mycroft took a long soak in the bath and slipped between the sheets, waiting for his lover to join him, encountering the accumulated grit on the surface of the bottom sheet, he slipped right on out again and whipped back the covers. When Greg joined him moments later, he found Mycroft standing glaring at the bed with his hands on his hips like it had personally insulted his mother. He unleashed a torrent of complaints about Greg’s slobbish behaviour which hit the other man like a tsunami, causing him to back slowly out of the bedroom door and onto the landing, down the stairs and into the kitchen. An hour later, when Greg couldn’t hear Mycroft stamping around anymore, he slipped back upstairs, swiped his clothes back out of the laundry basket, dressed quickly and left. Driving around with no real idea where he was heading, he found himself parked outside 221b and unwilling to leave the car. He sat for five minutes, patted himself down and searched the glove box for cigarettes, discovered he’d left his wallet on the bedside table, so a hotel was off the cards. A minute later he felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket, it was Sherlock.

**What has my idiot of a brother done now? Come up immediately before you freeze. SH**

He made his way up to Sherlock and Johns flat and found John sitting on his chair pecking at the keys on Sherlock’s laptop. Sherlock was stood at the window with his violin paused half way to his chin and the bow hanging limply from the other hand. He turned his head to look at Greg and pointed to the settee with his bow. Greg sat down and put his head in his hands.

“I take it you have finally seen sense and put a halt to this car crash of a relationship with Mycroft?” Sherlock stated.

John looked up as if surprised to see Greg there, he leapt up and scuttled into the kitchen, seconds later Greg heard the kettle being filled and mugs being pulled down off shelves.

Greg grimaced and said “He went all psycho on me because I got some crumbs in the bed, and that sort of triggered an outpouring of all my character flaws and the next thing I’m sitting in my car not knowing where the hell I’m heading. I can’t go back home because I sure as hell don’t want to speak to him right now...and I’m not exactly sure if I’d be welcome anyhow...”

John appeared with a mug of tea, a plate of biscuits and an A4 sheet of paper which he thrust into Greg’s hand. At the top of the page it read **RULES** and underneath there were two lists, one headed Sherlock, one John. The edges were yellowing and there was a tiny hole where a drawing pin had attached it to the wall.

**Sherlock                                                                          John**

  1. Wake up with a kiss in the morning.                       1. Body parts labelled in sealed containers.

  2. Sock index must be undisturbed.                            2. No burning my clothes.

  3. No sex when on a case. Or eating.                          3. No violin after 2am.

  4. No infidelity.                                                           4. No infidelity.

  5. No Tesco shopping unless in an emergency.           5. If I shop you have to cook. Occasionally.

  6. No leaving the flat without a kiss.                            6. Your number 6.

  7. Never walk away when you’re angry without            7. Ditto.

telling me where you are going. I worry.

  8. Always call me “Amazing” & “Brilliant”.                    8. Don’t always call me “Idiot”.

  9. Will “My love” do instead?                                        9. Yes.

  10. I love you.                                                             10. Love you too ~~Sweetie.~~




Greg smiled as he realised that John and Sherlock had obviously had a few things to iron out when they had gone from being flatmates to boyfriends/lovers/whatever…

“So, I guess you two had a few teething problems, eh?”

“Oh Christ yeah, but we stopped shouting at each other for long enough to work out a few rules, some of which are more important than others…Sherlock…but mostly we talk about it. Or rather I talk and he listens, and we muddle through. You just need to find out what the deal breakers are between you and Mycroft and make some rules.”

Sherlock put his violin way and picked up his mug, “I’m off to bed John, there’s a notepad and pen on my desk Lestrade, seeing as though you’ll get little sleep tonight, you might as well get on with it. Come along John.”

So, at 3am Greg finished his list and put it an envelope, before grabbing a couple of hours sleep and leaving for work. On his way he called at Mycroft’s office and dropped the envelope into Anthea’s in-tray.

“See he gets that will you,” he muttered before he turned and headed off to Marks and Spenser’s for a change of shirt, socks and underpants.

9.30am found Mycroft sitting at his desk pondering over a torn off list in his lovers handwriting.

**THE RULES**

**Greg                                                                                 Mycroft**

  1. No reading my book and telling me                          1. No crumbs in the bed.

the ending before I’ve finished it.

  2. No Infidelity.                                                            2. ?

  3. No stupid diets.                                                       3. ?

  4. No mentioning Sherlock in bed.                               4. ?

  5. Always let me know you are safe. Somehow.            5. ?

  6. No Brussel sprouts at Christmas dinner.                  6. ?

  7. Always whisper you love me when you                    7. ?

think I’m asleep.

  8. Always wear silk pants. Always. Always.                  8. ?

  9. No messing with my vinyl.                                      9. ?

  10. I love you Kitten xxx                                             10. ?




Picking up his pen, he paused and thought for a few moments before adding to his own list.

  1. No crumbs in the bed.

  2. No Infidelity. Very important.

  3. Healthy food most of the time. Please.

  4. Never mention Sherlock in bed. Ever!

  5. I will always do my best to keep you informed of my whereabouts.

  6. No over-ripe bananas.

  7. Always kiss my freckles when you think I’m asleep.

  8. Always borrow my pyjamas.

  9. No messing with my briefcase.

  10. Always come home to me. I love you too Bertie xxx




When Greg arrived home that evening, it was to a warm welcome, a large steak, and a framed copy of **THE RULES** hanging in their en-suite bathroom. The following day, Mycroft had Anthea deliver a large hand-tied bouquet of sunflowers to Baker Street with the simple words “Thank you. M  & G” written on the card.

*

Footnote.

After a few months of binning over-ripe bananas, Greg discovered a very sneaky way of getting Mycroft to eat them...what a monkey!

Banana Loaf

Ingredients

140g butter, softened, plus extra to grease the tin

140g caster sugar

2 large eggs, beaten

140g self-raising flour

1 tsp baking powder

2 very ripe bananas, mashed

Method

1\. Heat oven to 180C/160C fan/gas 4.

2\. Butter a 2lb loaf tin and line the base and sides with baking paper.

3\. Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy, then slowly add the eggs with a little flour. Fold in the remaining flour, baking powder and bananas. Pour into the tin and bake for about 30 minutes until a skewer comes out clean. Cool in the tin for 10 minutes, then remove to a wire tray.

"Gregory! What are you doing my love? Ooooh...is that cake?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sudden realisation...or how Greg realised he was in love with Mycroft

*

Greg was sitting with John on the stairs leading up to 221b when he realized he was in love with Mycroft Holmes. The sudden realisation was followed by the words “I’m fucked!” bursting forth from his mouth and peals of laughter from his so-called friend.

He’d received a call from Mrs. Hudson at 2.38pm, she was worried because she’d heard John shouting loudly, the flat door bang, feet pounding down the stairs and the front door slam. After about 20 minutes of deathly silence she’d dared to go upstairs and found Sherlock sitting in his robe, holding what appeared to be John’s favorite RAMC mug, her “What did you do?” was greeted by the muttered words “Microwave…mug…dentures” and Mrs. Hudson, who wasn’t half bad at making her own deductions, answered with “Last straw?” and Sherlock nodded sadly before adding “I don’t think he’ll be back this time…”

Fifty five minutes later Greg had searched the last of John’s locals and was about to head over to Baker Street when he spotted the hunched form of a certain Dr. John Watson sitting on a bench near the gates of Regents Park, he had his arms wrapped around himself and his face was the picture of misery.

“John. What’s up?” He said quietly, taking a seat next to the other man.

“Huh…”John looked up and shook his head “I can’t have one fucking thing to call my own. He never asks, just takes what he wants and doesn’t care if he destroys it. My phone, laptop, newspaper, jumpers, pens, razors, my fucking mug. I come home from Tesco’s and my mug is sitting in the sink with a set of bloody dentures melted into it. My. Fucking. Mug.”

“So you argued...?”

“Yeah. I told him he could keep the bloody lot, and I might have thrown a tin of soup at the wall over his head, and then I stormed out. Now I’m bloody freezing because I forgot my coat and I want a cup of tea, but I can’t have one because he’s filled my mug with melted old men’s teeth, the wanker!”

Greg bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself smiling, “So, you’re done with him then? This is it, the straw that broke the camel’s back?”

“Yeah…what? No. It’s a mug, my favorite mug, but I’ll get over it. What would make you think that?”

“Well, Mrs. Hudson said Sherlock was pretty sure he’d chased you off for good this time…he was sitting on his chair nursing the remains of your mug, feeling pretty damned sorry for himself.”

“What? No, you know me, short fuse, and then it’s done with…Christ. He thinks I’ve gone for good?”

“That’s what he told her…”

“You know what, he does my bloody head in, but I wouldn’t swap him for the world, I love the mad bastard.” John was up on his feet and heading for Marylebone Street, despite his short legs he was setting a pace that Greg was struggling to keep up with without jogging.

They approached the flat and John pulled out the key from his jeans pocket, letting them both inside he headed for the stairs, “Wait here a minute.” he barked in his Captain Watson voice, Greg obeyed instantly and sat down on the third step up. John let himself into the flat and shut the door behind him, Greg heard muffled voices and what sounded suspiciously like someone running towards the bedroom, the flat door opened as John shouted over his shoulder, “…and don’t start without me!”

Greg heard steps behind him as John settled himself on the next step up and grinned “You know what it’s like when you love someone so much that you put up with all their shit because not having them in your life is unthinkable? I’ve been dragged all over London in the middle of the night, gone three days without sleep with nothing to eat but a jammy dodger, ended up neck high in the Thames more times than I can count, but he’s Sherlock Fucking Holmes!” He looked at Greg “You know what it’s like when you fall for one of those Holmes boys. They’ll spoil you for anyone else.”

Greg blinked. He’d been seeing Mycroft for almost three months and things hadn’t been easy, he’d been left sitting in restaurants while Mycroft paced the pavement outside snarling into his mobile phone, been stood up completely on a couple of occasions. Had dates cancelled, rearranged, and cancelled again. Had the phone rudely hung up on him having been told that he was interrupting something that was important, and could he please refrain from contacting him unless it was life or death. Myc had even pushed him away in the middle of a mind melting blow job to answer a call from his assistant regarding a Swiss politician and member of the England football squad. In that short space of time he’d had his pride dented, he self-esteem badly bruised and his balls turn blue, but never had he once considered walking away. There was this smile, a funny, cockeyed, almost smirk, that he was sure that Mycroft kept only for him. A giggle that Greg had never heard in the company of another person, high pitched and sometimes preceded by a snort. If they got into a heated discussion and Greg ruffled his own hair in frustration, he could stop the other man in his tracks and watch his pupils blow wide with desire, a growl would issue forth before Mycroft’s hands would be in his hair, his back slammed against the nearest surface, and his mouth plundered by the other man’s tongue.

He knew that Mycroft had personally hunted down the best croissants in London because Greg was feeling homesick after a long phone conversation one evening with his father, and had them delivered, still warm, to his desk the following morning. That evening they had dined at a small bistro and Mycroft had whispered into his ear between courses in perfect French, “J'ai envie de toi desesperement.” (I want you desperately).

At that very moment, in that shabby stairwell, he realised that despite all his stubbornness, his impoliteness, his strange, Holmesian ways, Greg was completely head over heels in love with Mycroft Holmes.

“I’m fucked!”

John let out a peel of laughter, stood up and started back up to the flat,

“Too right mate…you sit there for five minutes and let it sink in, I’ve got a sulky consulting detective who’s desperate to apologise to me right now, and you’ve got to grab your opportunities when you get them…”

Greg let himself out of the front door a short while later, when the only sounds coming from the upstairs flat was the rhythmical squeak of bed springs.

*


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever fallen in love with someone?  
> Ever fallen in love?  
> In love with someone  
> Ever fallen in love?  
> In love with someone  
> You shouldn't've fallen in love with...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a little hiatus in proceedings while I take a fortnight's break without gadgets/laptop/WiFi (starts breathing into a paper bag) the boys will be back for another chapter soon xxx

*

On Sunday mornings, if both men are at home, they will stop whatever they are doing at 11.15 to listen to Desert Island Disc’s on Radio 4. They both have their lists ready should Kirsty come a calling…

**Mycroft’s Desert Island discs.**

  1. When I Am Laid in Earth – Dido and Aeneas. Purcell.

  2. One Fine Day – Madame Butterfly. Puccini.

  3. They Can’t Take That Away From Me – George and Ira Gershwin.

  4. Autumn Leaves – Nat King Cole.

  5. Sinnerman – Nina Simone.

  6. Ever Fallen in Love – The Buzzcocks.

  7. The Lark Ascending – Ralph Vaughn Williams.

  8. For M and G – Sherlock Holmes.




**Greg’s Desert Island discs.**

  1. Addicted to Love – Robert Palmer.

  2. La Mer - Charles Trenet.

  3. Down in the Tube Station at Midnight – The Jam.

  4. London Calling – The Clash.

  5. Ever Fallen in Love – The Buzzcocks.

  6. Jealousy – Pet Shop Boys.

  7. Rhapsody in Blue – George Gershwin.

  8. French Suite No 5 in G, BWV 816 – J.S.Bach.




They both agree that, should the tide rush in, the disc that they would save from the waves would be the one by The Buzzcocks.

*

Holiday planning is a particularly stressful time for both parties. Getting their diaries to coincide so that they both have a free fortnight is hard enough, as Anthea can contest to, but the real problem is finding somewhere that will give both men what they consider a successful break. Mycroft is vehemently against beach holidays, and with his complexion who can blame him? Greg, however, does not want to spend his holiday “trailing ‘round fucking ruins” (Athens), “schlepping through sand” (Luxor) or “freezing my nads off” (Aspen, Colorado). The perfect compromise has been found in a very small, very exclusive hotel on the island of Capri that they return to again and again. Just off the coast of Italy, Mycroft can indulge in his beloved Pompeii, and Greg gets to drive a convertible along the Amalfi coast, Bond style. Their room has a private balcony partially shielded from the sun by a large fabric awning so that Mycroft can enjoy the sunshine without burning and watch his beloved stretched out naked on a towel, his skin turning a delicious golden brown. Mycroft has developed a bit of a kink for the scent of Greg’s sun cream and now just a whiff of coconut can have him sporting a semi in the most inappropriate of situations…“Not at a royal garden party Myc!”

*

Both men wear reading glasses. Mycroft relented first and bought a pair of Paul Smith tortoiseshell frames, Gregory used these exact words when he saw them balanced on Mycroft’s nose the first time, “Oh you sexy motherfucker!” and wondered aloud if they would stay perched on his husbands nose while he gave Greg blow job? They did, though they did need a thorough cleaning afterwards. Mycroft was highly amused by such a primal reaction, however, when Greg eventually succumbed and bought a rather fetching pair of Prada frames in gunmetal grey, Mycroft cancelled his afternoon appointments, dropped trou, and bent over his desk right there and then.

*

If Gregory knew the cost of the beautiful Tumi leather briefcase that Mycroft bought him for Christmas last year, he would certainly not be using it as a makeshift table and balancing a large Costa flat white and a chicken and bacon toastie on it right now. No. He. Fucking. Well. Wouldn’t.

*

When Mycroft wears Honey Oud Eau de Parfum by Floris he is pretty much guaranteed “a right royal buggering” when he gets home. Greg insists that his husband should write to the managing director of the perfumery and tell them to use that in their next marketing campaign. Mycroft is too buggered to be bothered.

*

Greg secretly read 50 Shades when he found it lying around on Sally’s desk. Mycroft berated him when he found out, that is until he found himself lashed to the bed with silk ropes from the 50 Shades of Grey Range at their local friendly neighbourhood sex shop. Then he shut the fuck up.

“Oh My!” indeed…

*

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wondered what Greg and Mycroft have on their bedside tables? 
> 
> Wonder no more...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just back off my holiday and these two were romping around in my head, demanding attention...they're such divas...

*****

**Mycroft’s bedside table top contains;**

Manhattan table lamp. Eichholtz.

Sterling silver frame featuring a black and white informal wedding photograph of his beloved Gregory.

Chopard pin tray containing one pair of silver and mother of pearl cufflinks, a matching tie pin and 67 pence in loose change.

Book. Salome. Oscar Wilde. First edition, 1893. In the original French.

Maximus Anal Lubricant 250ml.

**Greg’s bedside table top contains;**

Manhattan table lamp. Eichholtz.

Bose radio alarm with iPhone dock.

The Chap Magazine – Mycroft’s only concession to lad-mag’s.

4.8m Japanese silk bondage rope. Black.

Waterford glass tumbler, containing two melting ice cubes, placed carefully on a pewter drinks coaster, “For the love of God Gregory! Do you know how hard it is to get watermarks out of hand polished ash?” (He does now…)

*

Mycroft will only wear silk underwear. If that palest of turquoise underwear just happens to come from a bespoke ladies lingerie shop, features a keyhole opening at the back, is edged in chiffon ruffles, and fastens with a large silk bow, then Greg is definitely not going to complain, no siree!

*

Mycroft can sit in his armchair reading, listening to music or the radio, without moving. Not fidgeting is a skill honed from years of nannies, boarding schools, meetings with foreign diplomats and afternoon tea with his ultimate boss. Greg can sit still in his chair for eight minutes, then a leg goes over the arm of the chair, or both legs and a twist leave him sprawled across the seat, he has even been known end up with his back on the floor and his legs propped on the chair seat. Greg prefers to stretch out on the settee, and if he can tempt someone to join him, all the better.

*

Greg has a favourite book. If you ask him, he will mumble something along the lines of Catcher in the Rye, but if you look on the bookshelf behind his desk at home, search for the most well-worn title, you’ll find a copy of a certain children’s book, filled with smoking caterpillars, smiling cats, Hatters, hares, and a little girl called Alice. His mother read him Alice in Wonderland whenever he was poorly as a child, it rapidly became his go-to comfort read, long after such foolish things should have been cast aside. Sometimes Mycroft comes home from the office in the early hours and he finds a sleeping Greg, curled up in their shared bed, still wearing his reading glasses, clutching the Lewis Carrol favourite in his hand. On nights like this Mycroft holds his darling a little closer when he cuddles up behind him because he, quite rightly, deduces that the day has been a shocker for his love, and after finding the house empty on his return from work, he has taken refuge in those well-loved pages until he could take refuge in his husbands arms. Mycroft carefully removes the glasses and, after marking the page, places the book on the bedside table and sends a silent thank you to Alice for taking care of Gregory when he couldn’t.

*

Thankfully, both men are in robust health, however, should they be visited by an unexpected virus, they react very differently. Greg will carry on regardless, battling the sneezes and the snot with over-the-counter remedies and unguents until he collapses over his desk and Sally has him delivered home to his bed. He will sleep for 48 hours and then appear at the breakfast table starving hungry and as healthy as a horse.

At the slightest tickle, Mycroft will rush to his doctor in Harley Street and demand a shot or a course of medication. After he has been politely shown the door, he will go home and collapse, like a Victorian heroine, on the settee, and demand that Greg caters to his every whim. This can be as sublime as driving around central London at 11pm to find a box of orange lolly’s, “Real orange juice Gregory, not orange flavoured!” or as ridiculous as searching every cardboard box in their attic for a notebook containing the Holmes family lemonade recipe, walking two miles to Waitrose in the snow to buy un-waxed lemons and then spending an hour bent over the stove making the drink. Which was royally rejected, by the way, because it was “irritating on the throat.” On that occasion Greg spent some alone time in the garden, up to his ankles in snow with a sneaky cigarette, to avoid wrapping his fingers around that particular throat and squeezing, hard. Mycroft isn't stricken very often. “Thank fuck for that!”

*


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Joseph and Constance...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A man is not complete until he has seen the baby he has made.  
> Sammy Davis Jr

*

One drunken night, whilst Mycroft and Sherlock were off listening to some symphony or other, John and Greg met in their local, a few drinks in, Greg let slip to John how much he wished he had met Mycroft when he had been younger so that they could have had children. John, never one to not interfere, visited Mycroft in his office a couple of days later and bluntly asked Mycroft, apropos of nothing, if he had ever wanted children? When his brother-in-law went misty-eyed, swallowed noisily and nodded just the once, John stood up, put his tea cup down noisily and said in his Captain’s voice “You two are a couple of fucking idiots! Go and find Greg right now and tell him, you wanker!” before striding out of the office and slamming the door. Mycroft cleared his calendar for the rest of the day, dragged his husband away from a crime scene by announcing “It was obviously the wife! Just look at her credit card statement!” and found himself sitting on a bench, overlooking the boating lake in Hyde Park, holding Gregory’s hand and confessing his deepest desire to be a father. A brilliant smile from Greg assured him that John had been correct in his declaration that they were indeed “fucking idiots” and that very afternoon they began to make plans to start a family.

*

Anthea, AKA Addolorata Daniela Giordano, peed on a stick, four months after “The Conversation” in Hyde Park, and found herself pregnant with Mycroft’s child. After a very long, very detailed conversation involving all parties concerned, it was agreed that Anthea would be artificially inseminated with Mycroft’s sperm. Part of the reason being that her colouring was similar to Greg’s, and the combination of her gene’s and Mycroft’s would give them the best chance of conceiving a child that looked similar to both its fathers (Greg was convinced that any child that came from that particular union would come out Ninja style, carrying an umbrella and a Blackberry, but he kept that to himself). She informed Mycroft that he and Greg were to become fathers by laying the, well wiped, pregnancy test on the top of a stack of paperwork and leaving it on Mycroft’s desk while he was out at a meeting in Downing Street. On his return, the whoop of joy that issued from behind the oak panelled door was heard two floors up and Anthea was swept up from her desk in a very unprofessional embrace. Mycroft interrupted Greg’s meeting with his team by swooping in unannounced and declaring that they were pregnant, If Greg was the subject of teasing around The Yard for a few weeks afterwards, it was worth it. The ginger biscuits left on his desk with a note “Good for morning sickness” were very nice dipped in his mid-morning cuppa, and the stretch mark oil found itself in places that the makers had never dreamt of. It did help with the stretching of course…just not the sort of stretching it was intended for...

*

Joseph Edwin Holmes-Lestrade was born on a May morning, weighing 8lbs 4oz, after an eight hour labour. The mother and the baby were fine and both fathers were present at the birth. Joe had a shock of auburn hair and a healthy set of lungs. He took a bottle of expressed milk from Greg whilst Mycroft looked on enchanted. Sherlock and John turned up two hours later with flowers for Anthea and a teddy dressed as a pirate for the baby. A week later John and Sherlock sat in Baker Street and had “The Conversation” themselves, plans were soon afoot to conceive a cousin for Joseph.

*

Constance Maria Watson-Holmes was born on a stormy November night. She was delivered by John into Sherlock’s waiting arms. The mother, a university student friend of Molly Hooper’s, was exhausted after a seventeen hour labour, but happily signed the adoption papers in return for her student loans cleared, a suspiciously low rent flat in central London, a job as a PA to a well-respected lady MP and a well-appointed office at Westminster. Although neither John nor Sherlock were the biological father, Connie had hair as dark and wavy as one father and the deep blue eyes of the other. Mrs Hudson was an honorary Grandmother to both cousins and spent many an afternoon clearing up after an enthusiastic baking session resulted in Connie and Joe top-to-toe fast asleep on her settee, and a selection of animal shaped biscuits cooling on her windowsill.

*


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wondered what our boys keep in their wallets? Plus, cat based injuries...

*

Mycroft has a pinstripe black billfold wallet from Ettinger of London. It was a bold choice made by Gregory as a change from the usual plain black leather and he secretly adores the fact that it matches his pinstripe Anderson and Sheppard three piece almost exactly.

In this wallet he keeps £150 cash, his credit cards, two security swipe cards and two photographs. The first is of Gregory and Joseph, taken on an unexpectedly warm autumn day when Mycroft returned home from work early and, being unable to find his husband and son inside, he ventured out and found Gregory napping in the garden hammock with their 4 month old son curled up, fast asleep on his chest. The second photograph was taken on the occasion of Constance’s first birthday. It is a group shot around the cake, Sherlock beaming with Connie on his knee, John, Mrs Hudson, Molly, both sets of Grandparents, and Gregory with a two year old Joseph who had just reached over, taken a fistful of chocolate butter icing from the cake and smooshed it into his face. Greg is roaring with laughter. Seconds later much of the icing would be wiped carelessly over Greg’s shirt front, and he would borrow one of Johns old rugby shirts to travel home in…which, incidentally, would end up covered in something much less confectionary based, but just as messy.

*

Gregory has a brown leather wallet, he just can’t bloody find it right now, damn it! (It will turn up in three days at the bottom of a box of Lego.)

It contains cash, credit card, warrant card, one security swipe card. One condom, one single use packet of lube. One folded drawing of Mycroft done by their son in wax crayon, the picture shows a stick man with a big smile and orange hair holding an umbrella. There’s is a big red heart with the word “DADDY” written on it. One photograph, taken at Joseph’s school sports day with Joe and Mycroft tied together at the ankle having just won the three legged race. Joe is punching the air and yelling, Mycroft is beaming at the photographer, his eyes full of love and pride. One trolley token, well somebody needs to go to the supermarket occasionally, and it won’t be Mycroft will it?

*

Mycroft received several scratches to a delicate area when Joseph decided that Galore, their pampered white Persian, needed a bath and promptly plonked her on top of his father whilst he was taking a long soak. During the resulting kerfuffle Joe heard a number of words that he was later instructed, upon pain of a two week grounding, never to repeat, and the cat, using Mycroft’s privates as a launching pad, leapt out of the bath and disappeared for eight hours. Greg administered first aid after Joe had gone to bed. It turns out antiseptic cream is not a good lubricant, no matter how liberally you apply it.

*

Greg let slip to John one evening in the pub, after a few pints had been imbibed, the story of Mycroft’s penis, the bath, and the cat, John declared it the more interesting of the Narnia Chronicles. Between them, they decided that it was the first, and probably the only time that Mycroft’s cock was likely to get any pussy action.

*


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I blame Agent Provocateur.  
> Mycroft goes poking his nose into things, which, of course, leads to Greg poking something else entirely...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (cough)...it got a little explicit...be warned...

 

*

Mycroft and Sherlock have a healthy snooping habit, born out of spending too much time alone as children. John tolerates Sherlock poking around in his internet history, his photo albums, even the cardboard boxes under the bed and in the bottom of the wardrobe. Greg, however, finds Mycroft’s prying a tad irritating. It is usually borne of jealousy, and takes the form of searching through his jacket pockets or wallet, looking for clues. This jealousy occasionally rears up when Mycroft has put on a few pounds and his self-esteem has taken a battering, he will stand at the front door, if Greg is a few minutes late home, and sniff him for cigarettes or cologne, pass comment if his husband takes a little longer at the bar fetching their drinks and snarl and snap if the waiter flirts. Greg will take just so much before he loses it, badly. There are usually swear words involved and the occasional glass broken. But the worst, the “shut the fuck up and don’t even…” moment was when Mycroft confronted him with a receipt for £595 from Agent Provocateur for a pair of Zarrinia briefs.

Before Greg could even explain, he was pinned against the wall by an angry, snarling Mycroft, waving the “evidence” in front of his eyes and shouting “Just tell me who she is Gregory!”

Gregory went very quiet, never a good thing, and pushing his partner off him he stalked up to the bedroom, pulled out his sock drawer and removed a gift bag which he threw at an astonished Mycroft.

“They were supposed to be a surprise you arsehat!” he snapped, before snatching up his jacket and keys and fucking off to the pub.

After a moment Mycroft lifted the gift tag and read **Happy Birthday Kitten, wear these when I take you for dinner tonight. G x**. His birthday was in three weeks and Greg had obviously been planning something special. He didn’t look inside the bag, instead, he placed it back in the drawer and took out his phone.

_I am an idiot. I am also very, very sorry for doubting you. MH_

It was fifteen minutes before he received a reply.

**I just don’t get it Myc? You know my history. You know my thoughts on adultery. Why would you think I’d do that to you?**

Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed and thought long and hard.

_It’s me. You could find someone else, someone better. MH_

**I don’t want this mythical person, if he or she does in fact exist. I want you. Always you**

_Come home Gregory. We need to talk. Please. MH_

**Ten minutes. Let me finish my pint**

Mycroft heard the key in the door twelve minutes later, he was still sitting on their bed, the balled up receipt on the floor between his feet. Greg stood in the doorway to their bedroom and leaned on the frame,

“Right. You’re the cleverest man I’ve ever met, so you work out what just happened and tell me why,” he said softly.

Mycroft looked solemnly at him and fiddled with his wedding ring, “I tried on my navy suit at the weekend, it was too tight, the buttons were straining across my stomach. I looked at myself in the mirror and all I could see was a fat, aging, balding man and I hated it. I wondered why anyone would want me?” He shook his head sadly before continuing. “On Monday evening you were almost two hours late coming home, and when you did arrive, you smelled of scent, women’s perfume. Opium. I recognised it, Mummy wears it. When I asked you where you had been, you were vague and mentioned you’d been to the pub after work. You hadn’t. When you go to the pub after work, you always sneak a cigarette off Hanson and smoke it in the beer garden, there were no traces of cigarette smoke on you, so either Hanson wasn’t with you, or you weren’t at the pub. You were hungry when you came in, when you go to the pub after work you always end up eating there. You didn’t go to the pub. You met a woman, spent some time with her, she was close enough that her scent transferred onto you. I put two and two together…”

“And made six. I did go to the pub, you idiot. Think again. The clue is in the perfume.”

“You…you went to the pub…Oh! You went to the pub, but not with your work colleagues…You met up with my parents, they were up in town for a long weekend, we had dinner with them on the Saturday evening with John and Sherlock. Why would you meet with them on your own?”

Greg smiled, “Come on genius, you can figure it out.”

Mycroft furrowed his brow, thought for a few seconds and then, as if a light bulb had gone on, he blurted out, “It’s my birthday. You wanted to plan a surprise for me and asked Mummy to help out…when you parted she gave you a hug, as always, and her scent transferred onto your jacket…I’m such an idiot!”

“Bingo!” Greg grinned, “Yep, you are an idiot, for three reasons. Firstly, I love you, and it’s not dependent on how much you weigh, or which suit fits you. Secondly, I would never cheat on you. There is no one on this earth that I could want as much as I want you, no one. Thirdly, you spoiled the fucking surprise. I had planned to drive you up to your parent’s house for lunch, John, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were meeting us there. Your mum and I have been plotting, she’d found all this old cine film of you and Sherlock as little kids and we’d managed to get it transferred onto disc. We were going to watch it after lunch. Then I’d booked us into that swanky place near Oxford you like, overnight, dinner and breakfast the next morning. I’d bought something sexy from Agent Provocateur for you to wear, because I was admiring your arse the other day when you were putting your shoes on, and I thought it was about time I dressed it in something pretty again. You know how it is, you start looking in those shops and then you see something really nice, it costs an arm and a leg, but you just have to get it because you’re at half-mast just thinking about the person you’re buying it for wearing it. So there, you blew it because you’ve put on a few pounds and you think I’m so shallow I wouldn’t want you anymore.”

Mycroft’s face crumpled and he put his face in his hands, “I’m sorry…I’m such a fool…you have been so thoughtful, and now I’ve spoiled everything because of my own insecurities…I don’t know what to do to make it better…”

Greg walked over, sank to his knees and pulled the other man into his arms, “Look here. You need to stop worrying about your weight. You’re so beautiful, I want you so much. Every time I come home and I see you after a shitty day at work, I ask myself what did I do to deserve you? I’m so lucky Myc. The party will go on, and you won’t let on to anyone, particularly not your mum, that you’ve worked it out, so, you better start practicing your surprised face between now and your birthday.”

It all turned out well in the end. Mycroft, being the consummate actor, fooled everyone, apart from Sherlock, obviously. There was cake, plenty of it, Mycroft ate a little because even he couldn’t resist Mrs Hudson’s Lemon Drizzle. The old films of him and Sherlock were priceless, Sherlock pouted when John and Greg collapsed laughing at a shot of him aged five running around the garden brandishing a cardboard sword and wearing nothing but a bandana and an eyepatch, this was made worse when mummy stage whispered “It’s okay John, he grew out of it by the time he was eighteen…” Mycroft suffered too when he was filmed singing madrigals in the kitchen, the Christmas after he started university, sporting a very poor moustache and a bow tie. Greg nudged him in the ribs and called him dapper, John preferred the term “Knobhead.”

Later, after gifts had been exchanged, a Montblanc pen from his parents, a first edition Jeeves and Wooster from Sherlock and John, and a white orchid from Mrs Hudson. Greg and Mycroft headed off to the Lemongrass Suite at Le Manoir aux Quat'Saisons, and, just before dinner, Greg gave Mycroft the little gift bag from Agent Provocateur. Mycroft unfolded the tissue carefully and cradled inside was the prettiest pair of ladies knickers he had ever seen. Gold lace with glass beaded tassels that decorated both the front and back, a scalloped edged cut-out at the back made to expose the divine peachy twin globes of the buttocks. Mycroft disappeared into the bathroom to put them on and when he emerged and walked towards Greg with an exaggerated sway of his hips, causing the little beaded tassels to swing teasingly over a rather suspicious bulge, Greg lost the ability to speak, and when he turned and exposed his bottom, seductively peeking through the lace cut out, Greg’s mouth filled with saliva, and he almost drooled. Mycroft found himself repeating a list of every Head of State he had ever met, just to control his rapidly swelling erection, because he knew that if the head of his cock peeped over the top of the lace, Greg would pounce and they’d never make it out of their room. He slipped into his suit trousers, and they both dressed quickly for their dinner reservation.

All the way through dinner, Mycroft was distracted by the feel of the lace and the beads against his skin, Greg could barely keep his hands off him, they kept caressing his thighs and carelessly trailing up and over his semi-hard shaft. Mycroft kept wriggling in his chair and seconds after the last spoonful of chocolate mousse had passed his lips, Greg leapt up from the table, grabbed his husbands hand and practically dragged him back to their suite.

“Take everything off apart from those pretty knickers, get on your hands and knees on the bed, now.” Greg growled in his most authoritarian voice.

Mycroft obeyed shyly, dropping his clothes where he stood, after peeling off his socks, he stood upright, his pale skin warmed in the lamplight, the delicate gold of the bead tassels glinting. His cock was proud of the lace now, standing pressed against his stomach, pre-come leaving shiny trails down its length. He walked, with a seductive swing of his hips, over to the bed, climbed onto his hands and knees and displayed his lace covered, bejewelled bottom to his eager husband.

It turns out that a peek-a-boo hole, cut from lace, makes the ideal frame for a pretty little bum-hole, and when the fingers of a rather randy policeman spread the buttocks of his darling wide, and a tongue is applied liberally, the not so near neighbours find themselves enjoying an audio version of X-rated porn. Not that they’re complaining, the moaning that issues from the luxury bedroom, keeps a few gentlemen up that night, quite literally.

Greg takes such delight in opening up his husband with his award winning technique (yes, he does have a certificate, all be it homemade and printed off Mycroft’s computer the day after he had been right royally rimmed for the first time) that by the time he sinks his rock hard cock into Mycroft’s quivering hole, it only takes half a dozen well-aimed thrusts at his prostate to have him spurting his release all over the bed linen. Greg manages a dozen more frantic ruts before he spills himself deep into his husband with a loud cry of “Myc…oh fuck…” After lowering Mycroft down onto the sheets, avoiding the wet patch, Greg takes great delight in kissing Mycroft's abused little bottom through the beads and the lace. It is probably the most erotic sight he has ever seen, and, had he not spent himself just moments ago, he would be up for another go.

They lie there in a sexual stupor for about twenty minutes, until Mycroft makes noises to indicate he’s for the shower, and, accepting the invitation, Greg follows those sexy, swinging beads all the way to the bathroom.

On returning home the next day, Mycroft takes some time to hand wash the saucy lace knickers and leaves them to dry on a towel in the airing cupboard. The following day he slips them into a satin bag, one he had made especially for delicate little items just like this, and places it in a discreet space in between his folded knitwear. On his lunch break he takes a little walk to Agent Provocateur himself and spends a happy hour choosing some knickers in colours that will look pretty damn fine against the tanned skin of a certain D.I Lestrade of Scotland Yard. The package that arrives on his husbands desk by courier half an hour later causes said D.I to blush furiously when he reads the attached note;

_G. Put these on before you come home tonight. Love M x_

“These” are blush pink, sequined and beribboned, and they do indeed look glorious against Gregory’s golden skin.

*


	16. Chapter 16

*

Greg hates winter. Getting up early to drive into work when the sky is still dark, the dampness that hangs around and chills him to the bone, grey days when it never seems to get light. Hateful. Sitting at his desk, idly flicking a rolled up post-it note between his dirty coffee mug and pencil pot, recreating some goal he’d watched on Match of the Day the weekend before, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed the sky had taken on that yellowish tinge that hints of a heavy snow fall. Pushing his chair away from the desk he wandered over to the window and, sure enough, the first flakes were already fluttering.

There is a well-known fact, that all people fortunate to have lived in the UK are aware of, that if more than half an inch of snow falls on this this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, the entire country grinds miserably to a halt. As Greg watched the large flakes settle over the grey, concrete expanse, he smiled, took his phone out of his pocket, and sent a quick message.

**_Look out of your window Kitten x_ **

A few seconds later the reply flashed onto the screen.

**We’ll be staying in town tonight. Walk over and fetch me later? MH x**

**_Early. I’ll pick up some dinner on the way x_ **

**Dinner won’t be necessary. Anthea already on it. 5.30? MH x**

**_Yeah. NEVER sack that woman! X_ **

**Not possible. She knows too much! MH x**

By the time Greg left work at 5pm, there was a good 6 inches of snow on the ground, he was grateful that he always kept a good pair of walking boots in the boot of his car, after changing into them and abandoning the vehicle in the secure car park, he set off walking towards Mycroft’s Westminster office. The snow was still coming down but he was well wrapped up in his warm woollen overcoat, thermal gloves, and a dashing charcoal grey trilby from Bates, that Mycroft had insisted he looked charming in, repeatedly, the night he had first worn it. The six minute walk took a little longer than usual, even though the streets were pretty much deserted. It was obvious that most people had used the snow as an excuse to flee their offices early, in fear of being stranded in the city over the weekend. As he approached Mycroft’s office, he pulled out his warrant card and flashed it at the security guard, it was one of the regulars, who smirked, tapped his hat, and opened the door promptly.

“Come to pick up His Nibs?” the guard asked politely.

“Yeah. He’ll need me to hang on to for the walk home. Those leather soled shoes of his, very elegant, but fuck-all use in weather like this. He’d be on his arse without me holding him up.” Greg grinned, “Oh, you didn’t hear me say that, obviously…”

“Of course not sir…go straight up.”

Mycroft was waiting at Anthea’s desk, he was wrapped in a navy blue Canali cashmere overcoat, the deep mulberry scarf that Sherlock had gifted him for Christmas was peeping out at the collar, his hands gloved in leather and a tweed cap perched on his head. Anthea was encased head to toe in leather, her beloved bike had been stowed for the night, and a suite booked at The Corinthia for the duration by her grateful boss. They all exited the building together, Mycroft gripping Greg’s arm tightly to keep himself upright, and silently cursing the crisp, white, covering underfoot that was already seeping through the thin leather of his handmade shoes and damaging them irreparably. Anthea bade them both farewell and prepared herself for the short trek to her hotel, she watched as the couple headed off towards their small townhouse, Greg slowing his steady pace as his husband gingerly picked his way alongside him. A grin split her face as she stooped down and palmed a handful of snow, compressing it into a small ball, she took aim and launched the frosty projectile at her boss. It flew through the air and hit him on the back of his head, maximum impact, causing his cap to slide forward over his eyes, which meant she was well out of sight before he had full eyes on the perpetrator. Greg thought he caught a glimpse of a leather clad leg slipping quickly out of sight behind a large black limo, but he didn’t let on. Mycroft grumbled and shook the offending icy missile out of his hair, complaining about the cold getting down his neck and something that may or may not have been “It’s a bloody good job she knows too much or she’d have her cards waiting for her on Monday morning…”

Greg hates winter, but he adores his cold, grumpy husband with his ridiculous shoes, and when they snuggle up in front of a blazing fire later that evening, he’ll even let him warm his freezing “Fuck! Don’t put them there you wanker!” bare feet, under his nice warm, pyjama clad, arse.

*


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very Merry Holmes-Lestrade Christmas

Christmas

Greg was completely unprepared for the enthusiasm with which Mycroft embraces this time of the year. Although he employs staff to come in and decorate their house with mistletoe and garlands and swags and wreaths, he is adamant that he choose and decorate the tree himself. He keeps a crate in the attic carefully packed with glass baubles that he has collected on his travels over the years. They are tasteful and delicate and Greg dare not go within five feet of the pretty little gewgaws for fear of them leaping off the branches on their own accord. On their first Christmas together, Greg admired the tastefulness of the décor but sort of longed for a little homeliness amongst the Holmesliness.

Over the years he has managed to sneak in a few pieces of his own onto the tree, a tiny tweed deerstalker hat that he found on an eventful shopping expedition with Sherlock, a beautiful and rather accurate looking umbrella, a disgustingly orange sequined goldfish, a blue glass tardis, a garland made up of very real looking Liquorish Allsorts and a large snow globe featuring famous London landmarks. Mycroft gradually relinquished his steely hold over the tree, and gave up completely after Joseph was old enough to add his hand made creations into the mix. Who doesn’t want a large salt dough representation of a snow man hanging off their tree? (Thank you very much Mrs Hudson…)

Other new Christmas traditions that have made their way into the Holmes-Lestrade household are the wearing of garish themed socks in the week running up to the day itself. Each man tries to outdo the other in the garments that adorn their feet. So far Greg is winning with a spectacularly tasteless pair featuring frolicking reindeer, on closer inspection there is what can only be described as a reindeer orgy taking place around his ankles. They both wear Christmas silk boxers on the day itself, usually gifted by the other. This year Mycroft’s will feature a beautifully embroidered sprig of mistletoe above the fly opening and Greg’s will have a snowman’s face on the front, and you can only guess what will be used as the nose…Gifts will be exchanged first thing, Greg can’t do the “let’s all wait until after lunch” shit, he tears into the paper with reckless abandon, scattering it around the room liberally and encourages Mycroft to do the same. All pretence of healthy eating is abandoned by both men for the duration, they feast on mince pies, fruit cake and stilton and, to Greg’s delight, Mycroft has to admit that the chocolate Lindt reindeer are almost as delicious as their Easter bunnies. Each year they buy each other a joke present, both men agree that Greg’s gift of Christmas stockings to his “Darling Kitten” was the best so far. Sheer, black, seamed holdups, Christmas dinner was very, very, late that year…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading these little snippets about two of my favourite Sherlock characters.  
> Wishing you all the very best of the season, and enjoy The Abominable Bride on New Years Day.  
> Big hugs :-*  
> xxx


End file.
